


where i am, there you may be

by peacefrog



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following their plunge into the Atlantic, Hannibal is badly injured, leaving Will to care for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where i am, there you may be

He could snap his neck so easy, quick and clean. He wouldn’t feel a thing. Instead, Will rakes his fingers through the hair at Hannibal’s nape, trailing his hand down to rest in between his shoulder blades, feeling the sedate rise and fall of Hannibal’s lungs.

He could give him too many of the drugs he’s been feeding into his veins, as it stands Will has been forced to estimate, assisted only by a few mumbled words from Hannibal before unconsciousness carried him away. Instead, he presses the pads of his fingers against the artery running along Hannibal’s throat, feeling the thready rush of blood beneath the skin.

He could shoot him with the gun Will was surprised to discover he had, tucked away in a box beneath the bed. It would be over in a flash of gunpowder and the swift spring of a hammer. Instead, he changes the bandages on Hannibal’s back, then gradually rolls him over, swiping a hand across his forehead to check for any sign of the fever returning. He pulls the bandages on his belly back and checks the crooked sutures stitched across the mangled exit wound.

Will falls down on the bed beside Hannibal and flicks his gaze between the ceiling and the window. He could leave now, disappear without a trace, his own injuries not bad enough to inhibit him from making a clean getaway. Hannibal would likely die without him, splayed out on the bed with his broken legs, succumbing to infection. Instead, he rolls onto his side and buries his nose in the warmth of Hannibal’s shoulder. 

—

Will allows the narcotics to wear off, and after some time Hannibal finally speaks. “These splints aren’t very good.” 

The tight line of Will’s mouth softens in a smile. “I used what we had, which wasn’t much. They’re doing the trick for now.”

“Where are we?” Hannibal’s eyes flutter open for a moment before squeezing shut again.

“Where you told me to go. Do you remember anything?”

“Yes,” Hannibal mumbles. “It was beautiful.”

—

Hannibal wakes again hours later, just long enough to teach Will how to properly hook up an IV drip. 

“Why do you have so many medical supplies in a cabin in the middle of nowhere?” Will asks, taping the IV in place.

“Aren’t you glad I do?”

“I’m glad I gave my dogs so many shots over the years. Used to give them their vaccinations myself.”

“How did giving an animal a subcutaneous vaccine prepare you for sticking a needle in my vein?” Hannibal’s sluggish speech thickens his accent to the point that Will barely makes out the words.

“Just tell me how much of everything I should be giving you,” Will says, retrieving the sketchpad and pencil from the nightstand. “I’ll write it down before you pass out again.”

“I’m not going to.”

“You’re not going to tell me? Or you’re not going to pass out?”

Hannibal hums, head lolling to the side on his pillow. Will sighs, setting the pad and pencil down and pulling the covers up to rest just beneath Hannibal’s chin.

—

The only thing distracting Will from the searing pain in his shoulder is the gash running just below his cheekbone. He checks the stitches in the bathroom mirror, wincing at the sight, the laceration inflamed and tender to the touch. Will pops more antibiotics into his mouth and cleans the wound with antiseptic and fresh pads of gauze. He considers dosing himself with Vicodin for some relief, but thinks better of it when he walks back to the bedroom and sees Hannibal lying there.

“You should let me look at that,” Hannibal slurs as Will falls down in the chair beside the bed.

“Don’t worry about me,” Will says. “You need to rest.”

“You need to rest.”

“I will. It’s okay.”

—

Will falls asleep in the chair with his chin resting against his chest, the muscles of his neck drawn taut and burning as he wakes. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes drinking in the lines of his face before he even lifts his head.

“Let me see,” Hannibal says, eyes fixed on the gash in Will’s cheek. “Come here.”

Will sits on the edge of the bed and clicks on the lamp. Hannibal squints against the light, and Will immediately clicks it off again. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m taking care of it.”

“It’s infected.”

“It’s fine.”

Hannibal drifts off again and Will pops more pills, this time including the pain medicine. He gently lowers himself down on the bed and fades out of consciousness with his fingers loosely curled around Hannibal’s wrist.

He is flying, falling, wind ripping through his hair and across his skin. In dreams it goes on and on, fingers digging into muscle and bone. The impact is like ice freezing him marrow-deep and seizing up his chest. The body in his arms goes limp, eyes blind to everything but the rush of waves stealing his sight. 

—

“Why did you save me?” Hannibal asks, the two of them lying in bed staring at moonlight washed over the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” Will says. “Maybe for the same reason I tried to kill you.”

Will makes his way to the bathroom and fetches a wash basin and an armful of towels. He fills the basin with warm water from the sink and sets it on the nightstand next to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he perches on the edge of the bed and swipes a washcloth across Hannibal’s face.

In the semi-dark of the room Will can just barely make out the slits of Hannibal’s eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You stink. Just let me.”

“Would you let me do the same for you?”

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal groans as Will struggles to remove his shirt. He soothes the damp cloth across Hannibal’s collarbone down to his navel, beads of water gathering in the greying hair of his chest. He peels back the bandages and cleans Hannibal’s wound, gently dressing it once he is through. He lifts Hannibal’s arms and washes underneath them. A quick glance at Hannibal’s face tells Will he might be smiling beneath the twisting shadows blanketing his skin.

—

“I had a dream about you,” Hannibal says the next time he wakes.

Will is reading in the chair next to the bed. He closes the book and rests it in his lap. “What was I doing?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see your face.” Hannibal pauses for a moment, drawing in short breaths that seem to echo in the silence of the room. “But I know you were there. I could feel you right beside me.”

“I am right beside you.”

“Will you stay? Will you stay with me always?”

Will gazes down at Hannibal’s hands, fingers splayed out on top of the covers. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Just sleep. You need to build your strength up.”

It doesn’t take long before Hannibal is out again. Will checks his IV and then feels around the edges of the tender wound on his own face. The swelling has gone down and the pain has eased. The sun goes down and then back up again. Will lies beside Hannibal on the bed, their fingers threading together like cogs.


End file.
